“I can’t believe I bought something like this,” John muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief as he stepped into the Ship. The cacophony of the outside world—honking cars, distant voices—vanished the moment the sleek double doors sealed shut behind him. Inside, the silence was deafening, pressing down on him as the sterile glow of the Ship’s lights illuminated the plastic case in his trembling hands.

  Each step felt heavier, the weight of his purchase compounding as he moved. He knelt, placing the case carefully on the cold floor. With a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he flipped the latches and opened it.

  There it was—a Glock 19, lying pristine against the foam padding. A faint gasp escaped him as his fingers curled around the weapon. The weight was unexpected, solid, grounding. Yet, as he held it, a strange feeling coursed through him. Something primal. A sense of belonging. His grip tightened instinctively, his knuckles whitening as he stared at the gun. It felt like holding a piece of himself, though he didn’t know why.

  Carefully, he set the weapon aside and began loading the magazines. The bullets felt cold and foreign, slipping through his unsteady fingers. Each time one fell, clinking against the floor, a flash of anger flared in his chest. By the time he fumbled the last round into place, his thumb throbbed from the effort.

  “I never knew this would be so annoying,” he grumbled, shaking out his hand. He strapped on the holster, its sleek black material molding awkwardly to his waist. The Glock slid into place with a satisfying click, and for a brief moment, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  Then reality crashed back in.

  “I could walk away from all of this,” he whispered, staring at the empty plastic case in front of him. His voice was low, wavering. “I have the Ship. It can take me anywhere. I could rob a bank vault and live like a king.”

  The absurdity of his own words hit him like a slap, but before he could laugh them off, memories surged forward. Chase—bleeding, desperate, fighting alone against things that shouldn’t exist.

  John’s expression darkened as his grip tightened on the edge of the seat. “What am I saying? Chase needs me. But—” His voice faltered, trembling as the phantom pain of being cut in half surged through him. He shuddered, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

  “Are bullets even going to work against those... things?” he asked the empty room, his voice barely above a whisper. “Am I wasting my time?”

  He drew the Glock from its holster, practicing the motion with deliberate care. Over and over, he repeated the action, the mechanical precision helping to calm his erratic thoughts. Yet no matter how many times he drew the weapon, the knot in his stomach refused to loosen.

  The counter ticked up on the corner of his vision, steady and unrelenting. John’s eyes flicked to the glowing numbers, their rhythmic rise oddly reassuring. “They carry over from... restarts?” he mused aloud, his voice steadier now. “I guess I can call them that. I’ve got time left—enough to recharge that.”

  His gaze shifted to the corner of the Ship, where a pair of new ballistic plates, along with a brand new plate carrier, leaned against the wall. He grimaced. “Those better be worth it. They cost a fortune.”

  He sighed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one with trembling hands. The smoke filled the air, acrid and grounding, as he took a long drag. “If these monsters are bulletproof...” His voice trailed off, the thought too absurd and terrifying to finish. “Restarting... doing this over and over again—no. I can’t. Not like that.” He closed his eyes, the memory of his death—of being torn apart—sending a shiver down his spine. “But Chase doesn’t have that luxury,” he muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke. “I’ll do it. I’ll fight. Just... not like this.”

  The words burned into his vision. John took another drag, his gaze fixed on the ballistic plates as if they held all the answers. Slowly, he stood and slipped on the plate carrier. The weight settled over him like a shroud, heavy and suffocating, yet it brought a grim sense of finality.

  “I can do this one more time,” he muttered. “Maybe twice if I push myself.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “Why am I even doing this?” He leaned back into the leather seat, staring at the console with hollow eyes. “I’m not a hero. I’m not some giant werewolf. I’m just... a guy with a gun.”

  For a moment, the silence of the Ship swallowed him whole.

  “How much time do I have left?” he muttered, pulling out his phone. The screen lit up with the time. One hour. He smirked, the expression brittle. “A couple of minutes before everything goes to shit. Great.”

  He extinguished his cigarette in a portable ashtray and took a deep breath. “Speaking of everything going to shit—” John’s finger hovered over the console’s landing command, trembling like a compass needle caught in a magnetic storm, and his pistol rattled faintly with each nervous tremor. The hum of the Ship around him seemed to grow louder, as if it tried to match the frantic pounding of his heart.

  He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing on the empty yard displayed on the Ship’s monitor. “Wouldn’t it be better if I just... stopped it here? Before Chase even gets close?”

  The thought lingered, cold and paralyzing. His grip on the pistol tightened as his reflection glared back at him on the dark screen. “Yeah, right,” he scoffed, forcing a bitter laugh that echoed in the cockpit. “Like I could ever pull that off. Chase is a seven-foot-tall werewolf who slices monsters in half like they’re made of paper. I’ve got... this.” He gestured vaguely to his concealed gun and the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that hung around him like a storm cloud.

  Still, a part of him whispered that if he didn’t act, there might not be a Chase left to do anything. That thought burned, igniting something deeper than fear—something closer to desperation.

  With a sharp exhale, he forced himself upright, slapping the landing command. “No going back now,” he muttered, legs unsteady as the Ship descended with a low hiss. The doors slid open, revealing the backyard bathed in warm light spilling from the house. Laughter and music filtered through the open windows, so normal it felt obscene. But beyond it, just at the edges of his perception, was the shimmer—the faint distortion that clung to the supernatural like a heatwave on asphalt.

  “I hope nobody’s looking out their windows,” he muttered, gripping his pistol as he stepped to the threshold. “Nothing screams ‘stable neighbor’ like standing in someone’s yard with a gun.” The bravado fell flat, crumbling under the weight of the familiar crash that shook the air. His breath hitched.

  The scene unfolded as if plucked straight from a nightmare. Rubble scattered the lawn, the remnants of Chase’s brutal landing radiating outward like the crater of a meteor strike. The werewolf, bloodied but defiant, growled low as the leader of the fish monsters loomed over him. The creature’s bulbous eyes gleamed with triumph as it raised a claw, lips curling back to reveal jagged, shark-like teeth.

  “Come on, little wolf!” it jeered, voice thick with malice. “The Ninth Street—”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  John’s shot ripped through the air, deafening and final. The fish monster’s head exploded in a shower of blood and gore, the wet splatter painting its companions in streaks of crimson. For a second, the battlefield froze, the leader’s lifeless body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.

  John stumbled back, the recoil sending a jolt up his arm. His ears rang, a piercing whine that drowned out everything else. “Shit,” he hissed, massaging his temple. “I should’ve bought earplugs.”

  “J-John?” Chase’s voice was a guttural mix of disbelief and relief. The sight of the werewolf’s hulking form, covered in blood, made John’s stomach lurch.

  “No time!” John barked, his voice cracking as the remaining fish monsters recovered from their stupor. They roared, the guttural sound tearing through the yard as they charged. John raised his gun, the barrel trembling as he squeezed the trigger. His first shot went wide, but the second struck true, shattering the knee of one of the creatures. It fell with a guttural screech, tripping another in the chaos.

  But there were too many.

  One tackled him, its weight knocking the air from his lungs as he crashed to the ground. Its breath was rancid, a nauseating blend of salt and decay, as its gaping maw hovered inches from his face. John screamed, pure panic overtaking him as he jammed the pistol under its chin and fired. The recoil jolted him again, and the monster’s head erupted in a viscous spray of blood and bone.

  He shoved the limp body off him, gasping for air, just as Chase barreled into the fray. The werewolf was a whirlwind of teeth and claws, red lightning arcing across his body as he tore through the remaining creatures. Limbs flew, screams echoed, and the ground turned slick with blood. Chase’s claws sliced through the monsters like wet paper, leaving trails of destruction in his wake.

  “Reload, reload,” John muttered to himself, hands fumbling with the spare magazine. His fingers were slick with gore, slipping as he struggled to snap it into place. He looked up just in time to see a shadow creeping behind Chase, the glint of a spell charging in its claws. “Chase, behind you!” John shouted, his voice hoarse. Without thinking, he raised his gun and fired. The bullet sang through the air, brushing past Chase’s ear to bury itself in the creature’s chest. It let out a strangled cry before collapsing, dead.

  And just like that, the chaos ended.

  John sank to his knees, his pistol clattering to the ground. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he surveyed the devastation. The backyard was unrecognizable—a battlefield drenched in blood and littered with shredded bodies. The stench of death was overwhelming, thick and cloying as it clung to his skin and clothes.

  “We… we actually did it,” John stammered, his voice barely rising above the sound of his own racing heartbeat. His gaze locked on Chase, whose crimson eyes glowed with an unsettling intensity in the darkness. The werewolf’s chest heaved, his breath a guttural growl, and for a moment, John felt like prey. His hand inched toward his pistol.

  “Ch-Chase?” John’s throat felt dry as sandpaper, the name catching in his throat. Chase’s predatory stare didn’t waver; it was as if he were sizing him up—measuring him. Then, with a sharp exhale, the werewolf’s shoulders slumped, and he collapsed onto his back. “Fuck me, John,” Chase rasped, his voice a strange blend of human exhaustion and animalistic grit. A short, hoarse laugh bubbled out of him. “We did it. But—damn it—I have so many questions.”

  John froze as a shimmer of light rippled over Chase’s furred form, the edges of his monstrous shape distorting like a heat haze. When the glow subsided, the beast was gone, leaving behind the disheveled, sweat-soaked college friend John had known for years. Chase scratched his head, his usual carefree smirk tempered by bewilderment. “Why the hell are you here? I thought—”

  “I’m the one asking questions,” John cut him off, his hands trembling as he shoved his pistol back into its holster. He fumbled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with unsteady fingers. “Don’t give me that look.” He jabbed the smoldering tip in Chase’s direction. “I just fought off fish monsters. I’ve earned this.”

  Chase raised an eyebrow, his face a perfect storm of disbelief and irritation. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” John shot back, taking a long drag and exhaling a plume of smoke. “Now, first of all—what the fuck, Chase?” He gestured wildly at the scattered remains of their grotesque attackers. “What is all this? What are you?”

  Chase’s face twisted in frustration. “I—hold on, you’ve seen this stuff before, right? The Hidden World? You’re part of it, aren’t you?” There was a hint of desperation in his tone now. “No way you just walked in blind. You’d have been turned away by the Glamour, right?”

  “Chase, your delusions are visible from orbit,” John replied, his smirk strained but sharp. “I just saved your ass. Honesty would be nice.”

  “For fuck’s sake, John…” Chase dragged his hands down his face, the movement somehow wolfish despite his human form. “Do you even—why are you here? How did you—”

  “Answer me first!” John snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “What the hell are you? Are you a werewolf? And those things? What about—”

  “Okay, okay!” Chase threw up his hands, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Deep breaths. What’s the protocol for—damn it, I can’t remember. Something about breaching the Masquerade…” He trailed off, muttering to himself as he stared at the ground.

  “Chase!” John stomped a foot against the dirt, his patience fraying. “Stop muttering and talk. What the hell is going on?”

  Chase groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Fine! Fine. Yes, I’m a werewolf. Happy? This is my human form, and the other one—well, you saw it.”

  John took a slow drag on his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose as he stared Chase down. “Right. Werewolf. Sure.” He glanced at the carnage around them, the fish-like creatures with their gaping maws and torn scales littering the backyard. “And those things?”

  “Deep shit,” Chase muttered. “You, me—both of us. If the Enforcers find out I breached the Masquerade—damn it, John, this isn’t—”

  “Masquerade? Enforcers?” John interrupted, his tone flat with disbelief. “Now you’re just throwing around fantasy jargon. Try again.”

  “Let me explain!” Chase shot back, his hands gesturing wildly. “There’s a world hidden from humans. Magic, werewolves—supernatural stuff. We call it the Hidden World.”

  John snorted. “Very creative. Who came up with that name?”

  “Do you want answers or not?” Chase growled, the edge of his wolfish nature flashing through.

  “Fine. Keep talking.” John crossed his arms, the cigarette now dangling from his lips.

  Chase took a calming breath, his voice lowering. “The Hidden World is real. Glamour keeps regular humans from seeing it. But you—It didn’t affect you. That means you’re not regular. You’re… something else.”

  John frowned, the words hanging heavy in the air. “I don’t know about all that. But yeah, I’ve noticed some… weird stuff lately. Like the shimmer around you. And this house.”

  “Shimmer?” Chase’s brow furrowed. “That’s not normal. Maybe it’s a mage thing?”

  John waved a hand dismissively. “No idea. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “—Anyway,” Chase began, his tone shifting into something almost rehearsed, “the Hidden World is ruled by the Enforcer families.” He leaned back against a crumbling wall, his voice carrying an edge of pride. “My family—Wolfheart—we control this region. One of our main responsibilities is to maintain balance between the regular humans and… well, everything else. That balance is what we call the Masquerade.”

  John raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “The Masquerade? Really? That’s what you’re going with? Wouldn’t it be easier to just rip the Band-Aid off and tell everyone?”

  Chase let out a long, tired sigh, his expression growing uncharacteristically serious. “And cause chaos? No thanks. The consensus in the Hidden World is that a full reveal would only end in disaster—for both sides. Humans aren’t exactly great at handling the unknown.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Plus, there are the… multi-dimensional regulations to think about.”

  John’s head tilted sharply at that last part. “Hold on. Multi-dimensional? What are you saying? Are you telling me that—”

  “Calm down,” Chase interrupted with a low chuckle, clearly enjoying the flicker of confusion in John’s eyes. “I figured you’d ask. Honestly, words won’t cut it, so…” He straightened, a sly grin spreading across his face. “How do you feel about heights?”

  John’s eyes narrowed, his instincts kicking in. “Why are you asking me that?”

  Chase didn’t answer, his grin only widening as he rummaged through his pocket. His fingers closed around something smooth and cold, and a spark of mischief danced in his blue eyes. “Believe me, you’ll understand soon enough.”

  “Chase,” John said slowly, suspicion dripping from his tone. “Don’t you dare—”

  Chase’s laughter was low and throaty as he withdrew a small, shimmering glass orb from his pocket. It caught the faint moonlight, swirling with an otherworldly glow like a tiny galaxy trapped inside.

  “Trust me,” he said, rolling the orb between his fingers. “This is going to blow your mind.”

  “Chase!” John stepped back, his hand instinctively reaching for his holster. “You better not be—”

  Before John could finish, Chase tightened his grip on the orb, and with a faint crack, it splintered. A cascade of light erupted from the shattered glass, enveloping them in an iridescent shimmer. The ground beneath John’s feet wavered, the world stretching and twisting like a funhouse mirror.

  “What the—!” John’s shout was cut short as the air seemed to vanish, replaced by a sensation of weightlessness. He grabbed at nothing, his heart lurching into his throat.

  Chase’s laughter echoed in his ears, tinged with both exhilaration and smug satisfaction. “Relax, John,” he called over the rushing wind. “This is just the beginning.”